Chapter 1
by MThorneMichigan
Summary: n alternate episode to "The Suicide King" and was written during the S3 mid-season hiatus. This is the complete version of Revelation Trail. I have taken clues from spoiler and add my perspective to what happens to Daryl/Merle in the Arena, Andrea's inner conflict of hope/reality, Rick's struggle with overwhelming loss and a discovery will bring the Gov down onto TeamPrison. Enjoy


Revelation Trail

By

Marcy Thorne

The story contained in this manuscript is Fan Fiction pertaining to The Walking Dead. The characters of The Walking Dead are the sole property The Walking Dead belong to Robert Kirkman and AMC

Placement: Post "Made to Suffer"3X08

Warnings: This fanfiction contain SPOILERS of episodes following "Made to Suffer" that were obtained from various websites. The content of this story is purely speculation by me, Monica Calo aka Marcy Thorne the writer of this fan fiction.

Content: Strong, Adult language. Violence. Suicide.

Prologue

Daryl Dixon sat perfectly still; any movement caused the old chair to creak from the shifting of his weight. He fared well adapting in this shithole of a world; one wrought with desperation, lack of food and sleep-where-can surroundings. His legs were lean and well toned; his upper body was more muscular with broad shoulders and well cut arms. Daryl Dixon was not large man, but he was an imposing one. He had the body of hunter and had the senses to match: agile for swift, stealth movements and strong for the hunt and the fight.

He had lost this fight.

Daryl thought of the others briefly and hoped that they had made it out of town, only briefly. He had to focus what was happening here. He thought he had seen Merle on the wall. The strobe from the flash bangs and smoke from the grenades was dense, the barrage of gunfire more pressing. Waiting for it to clear, he had taken a hard blow to the side of his head. When he came to, he was bound to the chair. His head throbbed as he surveyed the three men before him.

"Where is...where's Merle?" His vision blurred as he tried focus on them. Blood. He tasted blood.

A man of Hispanic descent approached. Daryl saw his sheathed knife in his hand. He circled behind Daryl and unsheathed the blade. He grabbed Daryl's hair and yanked his head back, holding the knife to Daryl's throat.

"Who's this Merle."

"My brother, you sumbitch!" Using his legs, Daryl, with all his might, pushed his back into the old chair, snapping it free. Daryl's body pinned the man the wall behind. The man dropped the knife and fell to the ground. Daryl landed opposite of him. He swung his leg around and kicked the fallen man in the face. Seconds later the other two men were on top of him, pummeling him with their fists. The Hispanic man struggled to his feet and kicked Daryl in the gut. Two other men ran into to the room, joining the others in restraining Daryl. Even with his hands tied, Daryl fought. He spun around, kicking himself free from their grip and managed to head butt one of thugs.

"Mother fucker! Hold him down"

Minutes later, Daryl was strapped to another chair, a metal one this time, and shrouded in a hood. From what could tell, he was alone. His hands tied and bound behind him; legs strapped to the legs of the chair.

He had to rely on his other senses as he had done many times before. As a kid, he would leave his parents' house and head out to the woods beyond the tracks. It was his sanctuary. A sanctuary away from the yelling, insults, and the abuse his dad inflicted on his mom. He would lie in a lean-to he had fashioned and listen to the world around him. In the quiet haven of the forest, he heard the crickets and the flapping sounds of a bat's wing as it cut through the night sky. He could distinguish the difference between a raccoon and 'possums-the night scavengers, by the sounds they make as move through the underbrush. Listening now, he heard the men in the distance just outside the room. Three distinct voices; their words cursed and muffled. He heard the footsteps of one of the men fading off, then a brief exchange between the two who remained behind.

He inhaled through his nose hoping to find some clues to his surroundings. It was a different room. All he could detect was the musty cloth that covered his head and stale beer.

Moments later a heavy door flung open. The two men entered and firmly grabbed a hold of his arms. More men entered the room; three, maybe four more. They cut the bindings, freeing his legs from the chair. They hoisted him to his feet. He didn't fight them. He needed to keep it together, to stay alert, ready and able if an opportunity presented itself.

Shrouded and bound, they led Daryl Dixon to the Woodbury Arena.


End file.
